After my husband died, I promised myself one thing: I wouldn’t spend my golden years waiting to die. My European travel fund represented hope – until my granddaughter’s diagnosis turned it into a moral dilemma.
“Use your retirement money,” my daughter pleaded. But I’d watched too many seniors drain their savings only to become burdens. “I need this for me,” I insisted.
I’ll never forget the day I came home to find my belongings in boxes. “The house is mine on paper,” my daughter said, her eyes hard. “Just like your money is yours. We all have to live with our choices.”
Now I stare at foreign currency I’ll never spend, in an apartment that isn’t home. The silence is deafening – no granddaughter’s laughter, no daughter’s daily calls. Was protecting my dream selfish? Or was holding my home hostage crueler? Some questions have no answers, only consequences.
